


Enter Pearl

by chinquix, Ellimac, FatalCookies



Series: Sun and Ash [1]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5789899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinquix/pseuds/chinquix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellimac/pseuds/Ellimac, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatalCookies/pseuds/FatalCookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hedge-witch Rose receives a call late one night in regards to a spirit in the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic and the others of this series have been a labor of love. It was collectively brainstormed by all the authors mentioned, after a post on tumblr regarding vampire!Pearl started going around. We wanted to know where the other characters might fall into such a universe. Chinquix got the ball rolling with their art. Fatalcookies and Ellimac started contributing ideas--and then Fatalcookies went and wrote a ficlet to go with Chinquix's sketch. Soon, we started to write more fic, draw more art. We shared ideas, collaborating on the world. We threw ideas around and keysmashed excitedly at one another. We started to draw fanart of each other's fic, and write fic about each other's art. 
> 
> And so the Sun and Ash AU was born. 
> 
> Though each of us have taken turns writing bits and snippets, so much of the creative process has been collaborative that no piece would have come to fruition without the input of everyone. I, for one, feel absolutely blessed to have been a part of the collaboration and creation of this AU.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it as much as we have!

Nine times out of ten, Rose counts herself as _one of the lucky ones_. That is, most witches are greeted with mild-to-extreme caution, even living at the outskirts of town, and even serving the townships and villages to which they attach themselves. Rose is, as these things go, an exceptionally well-received witch. Heavens, she’s downright _liked_ , and has not an infrequent stream of visitors, asking anything from herbal concoctions to a cup of tea and a soothing chat.

And so, as it happens, nine times out of ten, Rose counts herself very lucky, indeed.

It’s just… well, tonight, she’s woken up at the devil’s hour by a persistent knocking at her door, and cheerful and congenial a woman as she is, she still laments the interruption to her sleep.

It takes her only a few moments to take her dress where she had laid it at the foot of her bed, slip over her head, and touch her callous-rough feet to the ground. Another few moments and she opens the door to find the eldest Frye boy looking pale as a sheet on her doorstep.

“You need to come quick, Ms. Rose,” he stammers out, “there’s… there’s some kind of evil spirit in the library—”

Up late again with the occult scrolls, then. Still—for all his imagination, these things are not entirely unheard of. If there is any scrap of reality to Ronaldo’s late-night visions, it will be well worth her time to go. She grabs her scarf from its hook, and reaches for the lantern that hangs upon the wall by her door. Whispering the words to make it flare to life, she says simply, “Lead the way.”

Despite their haste, Ronaldo is shivering by the time they stand before the town’s library. Rose offers him her scarf, which he takes gratefully, and wraps himself tightly. Rose puts a hand to his shoulder, quietly instructs him, “Wait here,” and leaves her lantern with him as she steps up to the library door, and enters inside. 

The first thing she notices is that there are books and scrolls tossed about everywhere—likely only a product of Ronaldo having departed in a hurry, but there is no reason to drop her guard just yet. She stays quiet, and hears no breathing, no shuffling. Then the intruder is quiet, a spirit, or no one at all. Inhaling slow and silent, she breathes a spell into her palm, and lets the spark of light spread out to her fingertips until the glow reaches the stacks.

She hears a hiss at her right—a soft, pained noise through the teeth, not an angry, defensive sound. Rose quickly lifts another hand to shield the flicker of light as she turns, an untidy mess of curls flying around her shoulders.

Rose pauses for a moment, taking in the sight of the slender figure hiding as best they’re able in the shadowed nooks of the shelves. Rose looks, and then closes her palm, extinguishing the light.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Are you quite all right?”

A long pause follows, broken at last by a slight, “Um.”

The pitch seems, to her, distinctly feminine—but that only means so much, really. Rose shakes her hand out, dissipating the remnants of the spell, and starts a cautious approach. Just one step, and then a second when the first provokes no ill reaction. “Are you all right?” Rose asks again.

Another silence arises, this one shorter before the person amongst the shelves answers, “I’m… a little trapped, actually. Once the door closed, I couldn’t…”

Rose, too, had closed the door behind her. She glances back now and sees the insignia of the cross adorning the double doors, split between the two. When opened, the symbol was broken, but when closed…

And, as she looks to the windows, she recalls quite suddenly that the elaborate panes had been framed in silver, and the panes done in ash wood.

 _Ah_.

“I see,” Rose says, and turns her gaze away from the windows. This time, with her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she can make out a few books clutched in pair of slender, pale hands. Unable to help herself, she cracks a smile. “A spot of light reading, then?”

“—I always bring them back,” they insist, with a faint tinge of distress raising their pitch another note or two. 

“I don’t doubt it!” Rose laughs. “Though—oh… I’ve got Ronaldo waiting just outside.” She offers up a sheepish smile. “Do you mind leaving them for now? If you like, I can be back tomorrow night to open the doors for you, if you need. And I can make certain that no one closes the door behind you, either.”

Even in this dim light—or maybe _especially—_ she can make out how pale those eyes are, as they cautiously regard her. “I thought…” Then, hesitating, before, “Were you not brought here to do away with me?”

Rose beams. “With an evil spirit, I was told,” she says. “I see no such thing, here. Do you?”

Another small silence goes on. “Thank you. _Thank_  you. I—may I… why are you doing this…?”

The pause is the kind that trails off not in waiting an answer, but in the unsure, wavering tones of someone asking another question, entirely. It is the kind of tone that does not know to whom the question is addressed. Rose smiles. “The she-witch, Rose,” she supplies. “And you?”

The hesitation, this time, only lasts a moment. “The she-vampire. Pearl.”

“Pearl.” Rose holds out her hand to her—ah, yes, _her_  pronouns, aren’t they—and says, “You… can shape-change, can’t you? I suspect you want to leave without being seen?”

Pearl nods, stepping out of her nook at last.  There is a certain deliberate caution about her demeanor which reminds Rose a little of a dancer, or a songbird. After a moment's hesitation, Pearl moves briefly aside to a table, where she set her books carefully down—and Rose has to stifle a giggle at the care she takes, such a contrast after the apparent chaos Ronaldo left in his panic. 

“Thank you,” Pearl says again. And then, turning her pale eyes back to Rose, she asks, “And… you will be back, tomorrow?”

“On my honor.” Rose starts for the door. “How long do you need to change—?”

“Just a few moments.”

Rose turns a smile over her shoulder, notes the way she is being watched, with a grateful, if still-cautious look. She turns back to the door, closes her eyes, counts to ten… and then opens it.

There is the faintest flutter over her head, of bat wings—there and gone again in a moment. Ronaldo startles, clutching the lantern close. 

“Did you see it?” he asks.

“You can rest easy, Ronaldo,” she says, a knowing smile playing upon her lips. “There are no evil spirits here, tonight.”


	2. Second Evening, Next Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose returns to the library.

The stars align. Ronaldo is unconvinced that he could have imagined such an evil spirit, and so Rose promised him that she would come back the next night and keep watch. She suggests that he stay at home, and not make overmuch fuss until the whole thing is sorted out; Ronaldo is relieved and Rose has an easy reason to be seen at the town’s library after sunset, instead of being tucked safe and warm inside of her cottage.

If it is the cosmos’ way of apologizing for waking her up so abruptly this last night, then, well—she’ll take it graciously, and with a smile.

(It always seemed to her that the world could be such a kind place, if only you were willing to give a little kindness, first.)

It is autumn, and the days are coming shorter and shorter, and all but the hardiest of leaves turning orange. Rose already has a number of winter squash hardening beneath the eaves of her home, and in the late-morning light (after having slept in, thanks to the late night prior) she gathers the last of the summer herbs and hangs them to dry. She collects the colors of fallen leaves for her dyes and weaving, she bottles the wind to blow through flutes, later, to hear song of the summer past and the whispers of winter upcoming. 

And when the afternoon comes, she finds an open patch of light and sits, letting the warmth and the noise soak into her. There are birds closing up their songs, leaves shifting in a breeze, the distant sound of laughter. The river runs ever-lower until winter stills water's surface, to be filled again in spring. Small creatures scuffling, burrowing into the ground. The crackle as nature pulls back and the grasses come tumbling down.

The sky turns from gold-hazed blue into peaceful orange-red. Rose fetches her scarf and lantern, again, and makes her way into town.

Despite her concerns to the contrary, Ronaldo is not, in fact, waiting at the library door to meet her. There was a chance he might’ve gotten it in his head to be courageous and dashing—and perhaps have a chance of hero’s glory at the aid of a hedge-witch like herself. But he is not there; the greetings that she finds are all warm, and passing. Never mind how early these days the sun goes down, the moment that last light has faded from the sky, all doors are shut, and bustling in the streets seems like no more than a faint, happy memory.

Though Rose has no particular affinity for the moon nor the stars, she admires them their beauty. She passes nigh an hour watching their slow dance across the deep violet firmament before she hears a flutter of wings, followed by the barley-there sound of footsteps.

She lowers her gaze from the sky, and smiles.

“Good evening, Pearl,” she murmurs.

“Good evening.”

Rose isn’t entirely certain whether it is her disposition on simply her build, but Pearl approaches her with the same graceful, skittish caution she has shown from the very moment Rose first caught sight of her. Perhaps that is the way of vampires—perhaps that is Pearl’s way. Perhaps she still makes her nervous. It is impossible to say at this juncture.

Rose smiles, puts her hand to the library door, and—having asked the young attendant, Jamie, to leave it unlatched for her this evening—pushes it wide open. 

Rose has thought all day about how this might best be handled. It was quite transparent that Pearl was startled last evening, and quite nervous at having been trapped and caught so. Rose had positively thought herself in circles while tying herbs to twine, over whether her entering first, or letting Pearl take the lead, would ultimately lead to a greater sense of safety. Having come upon no foolproof solution, Rose waits.

And wait she does for several long, painstaking moments, as Pearl carefully regards the open door, Rose, and then the door again. She leans close (head and shoulders only, as if nervous to step too close) and tries to peer inside… to little effect, without shifting forward, some. She turns her pale face once more to Rose, a small war clearly being waged behind her eyes.

“Um,” she starts.

“—unless you’d like me to go first, that is,” Rose quickly supplies. Relief spreads happily through her shoulders when Pearl visibly relaxes.

“If you would,” she murmurs.

Rose beams, but demands no other encouragement; she strides inside, out of the pale moonlight and into the relative dark of the library. It will be a few hours, still, until the moon rises high enough to shine in the windows; until then, she must simply wait for her eyes to adjust.

Like a puff of breath, a faint breeze brushes her cheek. Though what she _can_  see is severely limited, she can make out movement by the shelves. It seems Pearl can move quite fast, when she needs. Rose smothers a chuckle.

“And the books you are looking for, you know where they are?”

“Oh, the librarian is very good,” Pearl says. Her voice seems to come from rather high up, and Rose wonders if she is using a ladder, or if she might simply be floating. “The ordering system is quite reliable, and the organization thankfully intuitive. You should have seen it, oh, forty, fifty years ago—it passed into the hands of the second Dewey child of that particular generation. For all that family has found great success in rallying  _people_ , rallying and putting together a coherent system of _literature_ seems quite outside their capacities. Not that I mean any insult, the original one that first founded this town, he was generous enough, and I suppose I owe him a kindness or two. Still, I haven’t come upon any problems in the last few years, looking for what I…” A pause. “I’m… sorry,” she says instead. “I have such a way of carrying on.”

“I don’t mind,” Rose assures her. “It was very quiet just before you arrived. I’m glad enough to have the conversation.” She smiles up in the direction of Pearl’s voice. “You’re quite a lot older than you look, then, if you’ve met the first Dewey of this little town. That was at least two hundred years ago, was it not?”

“Has it really been that long? Goodness gracious, I suppose the years _are_  blurring together. They always used to say, the older you get…”

“Oh, don’t I know it!” Rose laughs. “Yes, they say the same thing, nowadays.”

“Well, if the shoe fits—and do people still say that?”

“They do.”

This time, the sigh that Rose hears does _not_  seem to come from up high. There are only a few stars in the window, but that, combined with her eyes finally adjusting to the dark, means that she can actually make out hints of Pearl’s features, as she steps out from between the shelves. “Thank goodness,” she says, with her books clutched to her chest. “I’m not  _so_  behind the times, then…”

With a chuckle, Rose teases, “You’d fit right in. Perhaps apart from the fact that you move so fast.”

“Oh—” She can just make out that Pearl’s eyes go a touch wider. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Ha—no need to apologize to me, for a thing like that.”

“It’s only, I know I can be a little… disconcerting.”

Rose lifts her brows. “Is that why I’ve not seen you about, before…?”

Pearl’s fingers curl upon the books, and her chin drops an inch or two. “I like the time to myself,” she explains, her voice soft.

The smile softens upon Rose’s lips. “You’re speaking to a hedge-witch,” she reminds her, softly. “I see visitors often enough, but there is a reason I live outside of the village itself. I suppose that’s the way of some, to live just outside, and pick with care the times we venture inward.”

A long silence goes between them. The door is ajar, Pearl can decide to leave at any moment. But she does not move, and in return, Rose holds her ground. The starlight filters through the silver-and-ash-framed windows and they stand, facing one another.

“Did you leave the town when you began your practice?” Pearl asks at last.

Rose smiles, but her sigh is tinged with some sadness that must seem so odd and so _old_ , in coming from her. “No—I wasn’t born here. I suppose it was a decade or more since I came, but it seems… not much time, at all. Time blurs together and the years get shorter the more of them that you see. Or so they say.”

The light is dim, but Pearl’s face is pale, and relatively easy to make out, as these things to. Rose is _delighted_  to see her lips curl into a small, shy semblance of a smile. It looks so  _sweet_ on her—yes, even with the hint of fangs ( _wee things_ , Rose finds herself thinking) peeking out from her upper lip. Against the rest of her, delicate bones and formal ensemble, the impeccable black tie around her neck and her stiff collar… the smile looks positively… absolutely… well— _perfect_.

Rose catches herself beaming, and clears her throat with the back of her fingers pressed to her lips. 

“So,” she says, “What will you be reading?”

“—oh,” Pearl says, and quickly ducks her head, and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. It occurs to Rose, suddenly, that Pearl hadn’t blinked in all those moments of silence, until just now. “Astronomy.”

“Astronomy!” Rose asks.

Pearl seems faintly embarrassed by Rose’s outburst. “I suppose it’s a little dry,” she admits, “but I find it very interesting.”

“It’s only—I suppose I was expecting _poetry_ , instead.”

Another small pause passes, only, this time, it’s broken by the two of them both breaking into giggles. 

“Not, oh,” Pearl says as she begins to catch her breath, “not that I _mind_  poetry—”

“—but how presumptuous of me,” Rose finishes. “ _I_  don’t even much care for poetry! I suppose I just thought—perhaps you seemed the type.”

“Because I am a—?”

“—because you’re so quiet, and yet you seem to have so much to say. I suppose I thought, poetic soul—quiet, but with a lot of words bouncing around in that head of hers. Goes to show me. Oh—I keep interrupting you—”

“—not at all!” Pearl says, and then covers her smile with a hand. “It’s… I don’t mind, truly.”

Rose happily lifts her hands. “Well, you’ve just now got your revenge on me, anyway. Shall we call it even, and leave it at that?”

“Well, I suppose.” The smile that Pearl offers her, this time, is less shy, but no less sweet. Rose finds it quite endearing, indeed. “Um,” Pearl presses on, and tilts her head, indicating the door behind Rose. “Should we…?”

Rose makes a point, this time, not to interrupt; she simply stands aside, and lets Pearl make her way to the door. Rose follows behind, but comes to a halt when Pearl hesitates at the threshold. For a moment, Rose worries that the door left cracked still too closely resembles a completed cross—only, then Pearl says, “I don’t suppose I’ll see you again—will I?”

There is so much hope contained in those last two words that Rose can barely stand it. Her smile grows until her cheeks press her eyes half-shut. “I live to the west of the town,” she says, gently, “just a short walk from the border hedge. My door is always open to anyone who calls. Perhaps you can tell me about the stars.”

Pearl’s shoulders lift. They are at a peculiar angle—the light of the moon falls in at a slant, from the crack in the door, and it splits the space between them. It puts Pearl’s face not in direct light, but bathes her in the diffuse silver glow. She looks as though she were made of blacks and whites, silver, onyx, and the pale blue reflection of a full moon on water in her eyes. There are creatures made for all places and all hours, Rose thinks. It’s transparent that this is Pearl's.

“Thank you,” Pearl says, her voice shushed—reminded, Rose suspects, of the sleeping town outside which might hear. “I’ve said it already, but thank you for everything, hedge-witch Rose.”

“Please,” she says, equally soft in her reply. “Call me Rose.”

“Rose,” Pearl repeats, somehow making the name seem long and beautiful in its mere utterance. “Thank you.”

There is a brush of air against her cheek. Rose has barely to guess from where before she realizes that, just like that, Pearl is long gone. Rose breathes out slowly through her parted lips, breathless, exhilarated. _What a marvel_ , she thinks, and peeks out from between the doors, at the quiet streets and the watchful moon.

 _What a marvelous thing_.

–

When Rose at last arrives home at her little cottage, her scarf wrapped tight around her shoulders (fighting the chill, while she savors the last sweet days in her summer dresses) she enters into her home, sheds her lantern and layers, and falls into bed to sleep.

When she awakes, she stretches, brews her tea, and peeks her head out of her door with the coming of first light. It is only then that she notices a piece of parchment stuck to her door with the tiniest bit of sap. On the paper is impeccably lovely writing, done in fine blue ink. 

It reads,

_Though I hope your offer was in earnest, and that I will be bold enough to take it, I write to you on the chance that we should never meet again. I only wanted to say—I’ve not come so close to the sun in ages, as I did when meeting you. Your hair carries the scent of the day._

_—P_

Rose reads the note, and reads it again. And when she has read it enough to satisfy her, and to calm her joy to a simple smile upon her lips, she carefully folds the parchment and takes it inside, where she puts it in her small chest of treasures and good luck trinkets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally posted on tumblr, and can be found [here](http://fatalcookies.tumblr.com/post/132059998733/the-stars-align-ronaldo-is-unconvinced-that-he).

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on tumblr, and can be found [here](http://fatalcookies.tumblr.com/post/131993826458/chinquix-fatalcookies-timelordsandkittens).


End file.
